


Free Fall

by static_abyss



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/F, Mild Sexual Content, POV Eve Polastri, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27342193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_abyss/pseuds/static_abyss
Summary: They've both been tiptoeing around this issue for the last hour, neither of them wanting to be the one to break the contented air in the room. A kiss means something more because it's not necessarily for pleasure. A kiss between them is the blood between them, the bruises on their faces, the sharp stab of a knife, the searing heat of a bullet. It's knowing that neither of them walked away when they should have."Kiss me, Eve."And what is Eve supposed to do but listen?
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 28
Kudos: 232
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Free Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roguelightning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguelightning/gifts).



> I am super into Killing Eve so this was an excellent opportunity to finally write something in this fandom. Thank you for the prompt, roguelightning. I hope you like the fic!

Eve's family used to take their shoes off at the door so the front of their apartment was always filled with neatly lined shoes. Her father's boots were always the closest to the door, shiny black with knotted shoelaces, loose enough that he could slip his shoes on in the morning before work. Eve used to be able to tell what mood her father was in based on his shoes. If he was in a bad mood, he'd throw his boots down at the front and they'd land at an angle, sometimes on their sides. If he was in a good mood, he'd untie the laces and set them down precisely, facing towards the door. 

When her father fought with her mother, the shoes never made it to the front. Eve would sit by the entrance, the smells of dumplings or stew wafting over to her. They were her mother's comfort foods, methodical concentration needed for the dumplings, and little thought needed for the stew. Depending on how upset her mother was or what the argument was about, Eve would either stay at the front or go help her. 

Most times, Eve stayed at the front. She understood her father and she never did learn how to talk to her mother. That's what it boiled down to in the end, why she went to England for her father's funeral and decided to stay. 

"You had a dysfunctional relationship with your mother," her first therapist said. "That might be something you want to explore."

But Eve didn't want help. Children never had problems with their mothers. Children loved their mothers, protected their mothers, sided with them over everyone else. Children, Eve knew, never loved their fathers more than their mothers. 

"The types of relationships we have in our lives say a lot about our early childhood relationships, especially those with our parents," said Eve's second therapist. 

But Niko was kind and gentle and Eve chose him the day he walked in on her at a bakery, half-frantic and late for her first day with MI6. He took one look at her, paid for her coffee, and that was it. There was no one else Eve needed. There was no one else she wanted. That's what she told herself every day. 

And still, as she stands in front of the London Bridge and looks out into the dark river, she can't help but think of all the things she's done since she started working for Carolyn, since she started chasing Villanelle. She thinks of Niko in Poland, a pitchfork coming out of his neck. Of Niko in the hospital, his brown hair, that ridiculous mustache that he never wanted to shave off. She remembers the anger in his eyes and the way he was always so goddamn kind.

She hates him.

Or wants to hate him and everything he represents. He's who she chose when she had no choice, when to wake up in a world without her father seemed pointless and unnecessary. She was no one without her father's gentle prodding that sometimes veered into passive-aggressive bullshit. Not as bad as her mother. Nothing so cruel as a judgment of who she was and what she looked like, but criticism nonetheless.

"You could be doing more with your life, Eve," he'd say. "You were made for bigger things than this."

But her father had been gone, so Eve chose Niko. Because Niko's sweet and boring and perfectly safe. Because she loved him and was happy with him but if he died, she could survive it. Because her father had taught her to be one step ahead, to be prepared, to be good. Because she'd never snap a baby bird's neck, no matter how curious she was about the sound the breaking bones would make in her hands. Because Eve Polastri was her father's daughter through and through. Except, of course, when Villanelle was in front of her.

"Do you know how to swim?" Villanelle asks now.

Eve stares out at the night, the far off horizon where she imagines the sun will rise. She can hear the whooshing of the waves crashing into each other, the wind whistling by her side. The bridge's rail is cold underneath her hands, the rough stone soothing as she rubs her hands against it. She should be cold, Eve thinks, but all she feels is Villanelle's eyes on the side of her face. That solid, unwavering gaze, something that would burn if it could, that would choke Eve, would take all the air from her lungs.

She imagines Villanelle eating her alive. Consuming every part of Eve until there was nothing left. She'd stand at the London Bridge with the roaring cars at her back and let Villanelle take everything. Because Eve's her father's daughter but she's also her mother's daughter. And that means that inside her lives something cruel and judgmental, something twisted and dark. Because a child's supposed to love their mother but all Eve had wanted to do when she was younger was take her father's boots and break her mother's face. 

"Do you think I'm a monster?" Villanelle asks. 

Eve turns to look at her in her tan coat. Her eyes are brown and wide, glassy but focused the way they always are when the two of them are together. The bridge lights behind her throw her into sharp relief, and Eve thinks that she could cut herself on the shadows on Villanelle's face. 

She watches the strands of Villanelle's hair blowing in the wind and remembers the feel of their mouths crashing into each other. It'd been a quick press of lips, but Eve remembers every one of the ridges of their chapped lips, how Villanelle's breath left her, the way her hands shook. The heat of her body that Eve swears she feels even now, something solid and unmoving. She thinks of the burst of pain when their faces collided afterward, how the bruising dripped down Eve's face until it became a black eye. How Eve watched herself in the bathroom mirrors and thought of Villanelle's mouth on hers. 

_I can't see a future without you,_ Eve wants to say, but to do so would be to admit things Eve isn't ready for. That she could possibly want Villanelle after everything should disgust her, but all Eve can think is that Villanelle's lips look soft today. 

"So, do you?" Villanelle asks. 

Eve turns her head to look at Villanelle next to her. She imagines the kind of child Villanelle must have been, beautiful and blonde, with wide brown eyes and a smile that must have lit up her face. She tries to see the tiny girl who didn't know the sounds of crunching bones or just how much pressure to put on someone's neck to kill them. It's almost as impossible as imagining Eve as a child, crushing birds in her hands.

Almost but not quite. 

"I think we all have something monstrous inside ourselves," Eve says. "Some of us just know how to control our monster."

Villanelle smiles and Eve watches the way her entire face goes soft for a moment. Both of them are thinking of Rome, of the ax in Eve's hands, the adrenaline that coursed through her body as she brought it down on Raymond's back. She hadn't cared who he was or what he was leaving behind. What had mattered at that moment was that he'd tried to kill Villanelle and Eve couldn't let that happen.

Unbidden, memories of their time in Rome come back to her, the feel of Hugo beneath Eve, his hands on her hips as she closed her eyes and listened to Villanelle tell her what to do and how. She thinks of the pink bear this last time, how she'd held the recorder up to her ear so that she could pretend Villanelle was next to her, guiding her, telling her what to do. 

_Admit it, Eve. You wish I was there._

She thinks of the silence of her apartment, the faint smell of Villanelle's perfume on the bear's clothing. She listened to the recording over and over, let the sound of Villanelle's voice fill her head, and knew that Villanelle would know what Eve was doing.

Now, she pictures Villanelle at a children's store, the vibrant colors almost blinding, the loud, screeching sounds of nursery rhymes over the store speakers. She imagines Villanelle's wide eyes and her disgust as parents pushed past each other to get to their children. How someone must have pointed out the recording booth, how Villanelle must have stepped inside. She imagines it took three times to get the proper words, imagines all the other things Villanelle might have said. 

_Admit it, Eve. You wish I was there._

"I can't see a future without you," Eve says, means it more than she's meant anything else in her life. 

How complicated the turning of the world, Eve thinks as she and Villanelle stare at each other. They're standing in the middle of the London Bridge, the chill of the night washing over them. Eve can feel the edges of her hair near her mouth and as she reaches up to push it out of the way, Villanelle's hands catch the side of her face. Her fingers are cold but firm, their touch sending a shiver down Eve's spine. She imagines the way Villanelle's hands would feel on Eve's body, that dominating presence leaning over her, taking and taking and taking. 

Eve wants everything. 

"Did I ruin your life?" 

Eve exhales, watches Villanelle's stare drop to where her hand is on Eve's face. Villanelle blinks slow, her eyes following her fingers as they twine in Eve's curls. There's something that could be regret on her face, as though she really feels whatever pain she's caused Eve. And there is the problem, Eve thinks, as she takes a step back. She just can't be sure that Villanelle feels the same way Eve does, that if they do this, Villanelle won't run once she's bored, that Alaska isn't just a pipe dream.

 _You were made for better things,_ her father always said. 

The night air blows over the river and Eve tries not to shiver despite her jacket. It would be so easy to move forward, to catch Villanelle's hand and put it back on Eve, to kiss her. Eve's sure there would be no hesitation. They could do this now that Eve has no attachments, now that Niko's done and over, now that she knows, deep down, that if Villanelle asked, Eve would go with her. 

She thinks of Dasha and Eve's foot on her chest, the cracking ribs, the knowledge that Eve wanted her dead and would have done anything to make it happen. She wonders how different it makes her from Villanelle, that desire to kill. She knows they're alike in many ways because Eve, too, leaves destruction in her wake and sometimes, she's not even sorry. But she's never stopped to think about where they differ, about whether there might not be redemption for their relationship in those differences. For Eve. For Villanelle. Whether that matters given the things they've done. 

Eve turns back to the water, thinks of gasping breaths and crunching bones, of little birds in her hands. "I want it to stop," she says, finds that she truly means it once the words are out of her mouth.

She wants to stop feeling the guilt, that horrible sense of responsibility for Niko, for Dasha, for Carolyn, for Kenny. So she turns when Villanelle tells her to turn, looks at her eyes, thinks, _kiss me_. But Villanelle exhales shakily, her breath fogging in the air, the lights so vibrant behind her, blues and purples and whites. She touches Eve's hair, says, "turn around."

Eve turns, feels Villanelle's back against her, imagines the number of times they stood this close and missed each other before. That they would end up here feels inevitable. All those months trying to catch Villanelle, learning about her, trying to imagine who she was and what she felt. Everything was always too easy, as though Eve were relearning who she was or who she might have been in another life. This ache in her chest, the desperation to escape, to not want Villanelle is just Eve denying what's been in front of her eyes all this time. She and Villanelle are more alike than they will ever be different.

As they stand back to back on the London Bridge, Eve thinks it would make sense if she and Villanelle had met before in another life. Because all this time, it's felt as if all they've been doing is trying to find a way back to each other. 

Eve inhales, wonders how she's meant to explain what she feels to Villanelle. But Villanelle exhales and before Eve can gather her thoughts, she feels Villanelle's fingers grazing the back of her hands. 

If you really want it to stop," Villanelle says, pressing her back into Eve's for a moment. "It's easy. We just start walking and we never look back."

"What?" Eve asks.

"Just walk, Eve," Villanelle says. 

Eve doesn't move, stands there under the London Bridge and tries to understand the thumping of her heart. She knows this is for the best. She and Villanelle have left too many dirty and messy things between them. To think that they might try again is laughable. But Eve's so sure she didn't imagine the crack in Villanelle's voice. The same way she knows the sudden ache in her chest is because she wants to turn around and bury her hands in Villanelle's hair. She thinks of chapped lips and a surprised gasp against her mouth. Of Villanelle as a child, somewhere in Russia, of her in prison. There's still so much they don't know about each other, so many unimportant little details that Villanelle will never take the time to ask about. 

Eve isn't like her, no matter how much she might want to be. She can't do detached commitment. She's more than that. She has to be. So she inhales, feels the wind blowing against her back and knows Villanelle's left. All she has to do now is walk and keep going. Easy as breathing.

She goes, follows the sounds of civilization in the distance, the laughter from the streets up front, the light of the storefronts. There's a taxi rounding the corner up ahead and Eve imagines going inside, asking to go as far away from here as possible. To never see Villanelle again. Never to know what her hands feel against Eve's side. Never to know what all those women who've crawled out of her bed felt. 

She could take the cab and go forever, take a plane back to the states and get lost among the masses. She'd go to her mother's, back to the desk job that bored Eve out of her mind. It would be better there, away from her father's ghost in London and Kenny. Niko. Dasha. Raymond. So many people Eve's already hurt and the list only keeps growing. She should go for the benefit of her friends. It's what's right. 

_Admit it, Eve. You wish I was there._

She stops because it's true, because wherever she went, she'd wish Villanelle was there. Because the night is cold and the taxi driver is pulling away from the curb. Because Eve could run but she still has the recorder with Villanelle's voice in her purse. 

She turns and in the distance, Villanelle stands like a foreboding shadow. Stay or go. There's barely enough time for Eve to decide before Villanelle's turning, before their eyes meet, before that small sweet smile breaks across Villanelle's face.

And really, Eve thinks, maybe the decision was made a long time ago. 

-

Eve doesn't know how long she stands there, the waves crashing underneath the London Bridge, the air blowing her hair into her eyes. She's aware of each step between her and Villanelle, of how long it would take to close the distance between them. Eve could move, could be the one to initiate the momentum, see how far she can take them, how much she can push, how off guard she can catch Villanelle. If Eve were to move first, she'd press forward forever, coming at Villanelle from all sides, never giving her enough time to think, to reassess, to get bored. 

"Kiss me," Eve whispers.

Villanelle blinks at her, the smile slipping from her face. "What?" she asks, motioning to her ear. "I can't hear you, Eve."

The laughter catches Eve by surprise. It's the honest kind, coming from deep within Eve's stomach so that her shoulders shake with it. How ridiculous that here they are, neither of them wanting to walk away from whatever madness exists between them, and Villanelle can't hear her. 

Eve inhales, feels the wild abandon of her laughter, and cups her hands around her mouth. "Kiss me," she yells. 

Once it's out, it doesn't seem like nearly enough. There's too much still inside Eve, doubts and wants, and other unnameable nonsense. So Eve takes a deep breath and shouts it out again and again, "kiss me," and "kiss me," and "kiss me."

And underneath her elation and the honking of the passing cars, she thinks, if only her father could see her now. 

-

The night is cold but Eve is hot, every inch of her burning as she lays on the hotel bed, the comforter bunched up underneath her, Villanelle above her. She can see the lines on the ceiling, haphazard swirls that run into each other. Every few centimeters, there's a smudge, and Eve wonders how many other people have passed through this room. Whether they too felt the deep want that runs through her at the feel of Villanelle's mouth on her neck. 

"Kiss me, Eve," she says. 

Her mouth is a dangerous thing, determined and firm, igniting the flames inside Eve. Addicting, like the sound of her voice coming out of cheap tinny recorders. The real thing is better, the way Villanelle makes quiet sounds against Eve's ear, the wet slide of her tongue, the murmured words that crawl down Eve's spine and leave her trembling. She could stay there forever, with Villanelle's hands on her, their mouths almost but not yet touching. That moment could be enough—Eve before she knew the taste of Villanelle's mouth and Villanelle before she knew the sounds Eve makes when she's really gone. 

Eve inhales and thinks of Villanelle's voice in her ear, the low commands back in Rome, the certainty in the pink ballerina bear. She knows the moment between them now will never be enough because Eve wants it all. 

"Kiss me," she says. 

They haven't yet. Because Villanelle laughed when Eve screamed it from across the bridge and the passing cars honked their agreement. She closed the space between without a care in the world, her fingers latching onto Eve's jacket as she walked past her, pulling her along. 

They made it to the Double Tree at the Hilton where Villanelle tossed her credit card at the receptionist and asked for a room. The girl at the front took one look at them—Villanelle's hand on Eve's jacket, the way Eve couldn't take her eyes off her—and sent them on their way. There was no time for kisses during their crowded elevator ride. No time for Eve to sink her hands in Villanelle's hair when they pushed their hotel room open. There was nothing Eve could do as Villanelle shoved her onto the bed and held her down.

Now, Eve's lying on the mattress, Villanelle's hands in her hair keeping her still.

 _Pull a little harder,_ Eve wants to say. _Kiss me. Do whatever you want to me._

But she doesn't say anything, just lays there wanting everything and not knowing how to ask for it. 

-

They fuck once, hard and fast and desperate, Eve's shirt still on, her jeans barely unbuttoned. Villanelle's fingers are long and slender and she's good with her hands, knows how to tease until Eve's panting underneath her. Eve doesn't know what to do with herself as she lays there and feels the unraveling of months of tension. She holds on, her legs slipping around Villanelle's sides, her hands bunching up the sheets underneath them. 

"Fuck," Villanelle says. "You smell so good, Eve."

They haven't done anything yet, or nothing even close to what Eve wants to do. There are months worth of fantasies to fulfill now that Eve's decided to do this. She wants Villanelle beneath her, her hands above her head, letting Eve do what she wants to her. Trusting her. But this will have to do for now, Villanelle's hands and her mouth. 

Eve reaches out and pulls Villanelle down, leans forward to kiss her, her mouth centimeters away when Villanelle pulls back. 

"Not yet," she says. 

"Why not?" Eve asks.

Villanelle doesn't answer, just grabs Eve's hands and pins them down on the bed. She presses her fingernails into Eve's wrists, waits until Eve relaxes against the mattress before letting her go. Then she puts her hands on Eve's hips and runs her palms up, bunching up Eve's shirt, her fingers pressing firmly then lightly. Eve watches Villanelle's concentrated expression, the way she's avoiding Eve's eyes. 

"Why not?" Eve asks again.

Villanelle shakes her head, says, "please, Eve."

So Eve sits up, gets her hands underneath Villanelle's shirt, feels the smooth slide of her skin, feels the hitch of her breath as Eve digs her fingers into Villanelle's side. Eve thinks of the London streets, of the groups they passed on their way to the hotel, the parents and their children, the people walking alone. She thinks of her bedroom, of her apartment, of the couch in the office, and the way she woke with a crick in her neck for days on end. She thinks of how much better it feels to give in, to lay in soft hotel beds with Villanelle.

She presses forward, feels Villanelle's smooth skin against hers, gets lost in the sounds they make between them. When Eve finally gets her mouth between Villanelle's legs, the sound she makes is so soft, Eve almost misses it. Villanelle is quiet, all of her coiled tight as Eve works her mouth against her, all of her focused on Eve, her eyes dark and unwavering. Eve feels watched, feels as though Villanelle's hands are on her, as though she's being held down, told what to do. 

She thinks of Rome, of how loud Villanelle was then, how Eve imagined being the one to draw the sounds from Villanelle one day. She closes her eyes now, digs her fingers into Villanelle's thighs, and does her best to take her apart. 

It's surprisingly easy, Villanelle responding beautifully to Eve's touch. She goes where Eve puts her, takes everything Eve gives her. She's quiet but expressive, her body coiled tight with building tension, her hands grasping at the sheets. She's not demanding this way, her mouth less dangerous when Eve can keep away from it, when Eve's the one leading. 

She thinks of dancing with Villanelle, of how natural it was to step in and lead where Villanelle couldn't. To have Villanelle follow as though Eve were her equal. 

"Eve," Villanelle says now, her hand coming to touch Eve's face gently. "Are you okay?"

Eve doesn't know how to say that this is probably the first time she's been okay since her father died. Instead, she ducks her head and concentrates on taking Villanelle apart. She listens to the change in Villanelle's breathing, the muffled groans that come deep from within Villanelle's throat. When she comes, Villanelle goes quiet, everything within her stilling unnaturally for a moment. Then she sits up, grabs Eve by the hair, and pulls their faces close together. 

"Kiss me, Eve," she says.

And what is Eve supposed to do but obey?

-

Eve's first kiss was with a boy in her middle school. He had dark brown hair that covered his eyes and that he kept pushing behind his ear. Eve liked him well enough but she wouldn't be able to remember his name, even if she tried. Back then, he must have meant a lot more to her because she remembers she took him out to the alley behind the school, shoved him into the brick wall, and said, "kiss me."

She remembers that he looked at her, big brown eyes and wide sloppy mouth, and did nothing. So Eve kissed him, just a messy meeting of mouths that crashed their teeth together. She heard his sharp inhale of pain, tasted the blood in her mouth, and pushed him away. 

She took home a bloody lip that day, listened to her mother go on and on about being careless and clumsy. Her father found her later, held her as she told him what happened and cried. He wiped her tears—Eve remembers that clearly—tucked her into bed, and told her that no matter what, he'd always love her. 

"Nothing you could ever do will ever make me stop loving you," were his exact words. 

But Eve lays on the hotel mattress with Villanelle's head on her chest and thinks this is probably something her father hadn't anticipated when he told her he'd never stop loving her. She thinks of Dasha, of Raymond, of the adrenaline in her veins, and the anger that consumed her. She hadn't wanted to kill Raymond. She'd only ever wanted to protect Villanelle. But Dasha had been different. Eve wanted to hurt Dasha, wanted to snap every one of her bones and pull her apart for what she did to Niko. 

Because Niko matters.

She thinks of Rome, of Villanelle's scared eyes and the veins on her face when Raymond choked her. He would have killed her and Eve couldn't let that happen. And as she lays there and stares at the white ceiling of their hotel room, Eve knows, deep down, that given another chance, she'd kill Raymond again. Even if she'd known Villanelle had a gun, Eve would have done something because whether she likes it or not, Villanelle matters.This between them means something and Eve is going to do her best to hold onto it.

She takes a deep breath, feels the thumping of her heart, the heavy weight of Villanelle on her. She's never been so comfortable in her life, so she takes a deep breath and says, "kiss me." 

Villanelle doesn't move at first but Eve knows she's heard her. They've both been tiptoeing around this issue for the last hour, neither of them wanting to be the one to break the contented air in the room. A kiss means something more because it's not necessarily for pleasure. A kiss between them is the blood between them, the bruises on their faces, the sharp stab of a knife, the searing heat of a bullet. It's knowing that neither of them walked away when they should have.

"Are you all right?" Eve asks. 

"Are you leaving me?" Villanelle asks at the same time. 

When Eve was a child, she had a pet bird that would eat out of the palm of her hand. Every day after she ate, Eve would open the cage and hold her hand out. And every day, without fail, the little bird would hop onto her fingers and eat the seeds. Until the day her mother left the cage open and the little bird flew out the open window. It hadn't mattered that Eve fed the little bird every day. In the end, the little bird had chosen freedom. The same way Villanelle will choose it one day. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Eve says. 

Villanelle shifts in Eve's arms and Eve knows she's smiling, knows that Eve's said the right thing for now. Knows, too, that one day, she'll say the wrong thing and Villanelle will walk away. 

"Kiss me, Eve," she says. 

Eve sits up, the sheets falling from around her. Villanelle sits too, her face bright and amused, eyebrows raised suggestively. 

"Did you know, I wanted you ever since I saw you," Villanelle whispers in the space between them.

Her lips are so red, her eyes already on Eve's mouth as though she can't help it. 

"I wanted you too," Eve says. "Ever since I saw you."

Villanelle grins, wild and free. "Of course you did."

Eve huffs out a laugh, shakes her head, says, "shut up."

Villanelle is still grinning when Eve slides her hands into her hair, still laughing when Eve brings their faces close together. They look at each other, Villanelle's eyes on Eve's mouth, her hands shaking where they're gripping Eve's sides. Eve moves forward, sees Villanelle swaying to meet her halfway, and realizes that she has the upper hand here. That if she pulls away, Villanelle will let her go. So Eve leans forward and closes the distance between them, slides her hands deeper into Villanelle's hair as their lips meet.

It's a slow, gentle press of lips at first, just the barest hint of contact that's enough to leave Eve breathless. She can feel Villanelle's sharp exhale against her lips, the way they're both trembling, the room too quiet, the air too hot. 

"Kiss me properly, Eve," Villanelle says.

"Make me," Eve whispers, thinks of bruises and black eyes.

The second time their lips meet is more of a fight, hard and demanding from Villanelle. She pushes and pushes and Eve gives and gives and it's not nearly enough. Eve fights back, bites at Villanelle's bottom lip, takes and takes and takes until Villanelle exhales and gives. It's easier the third time, softer, quieter. The fourth and fifth time too. Until they've kissed so much, Eve's lips go numb and she still wants more. So much more than quick meetings in different countries. More than stabbings and shootings. More than just this moment at the Hilton. More than just Villanelle watching her through half-lidded eyes and a shit-eating grin on her face. 

"Are you going to leave me?" Eve asks, wanting everything.

Villanelle blinks, unsmiling, at her. "Never," she says.

And what is Eve supposed to do but believe her?


End file.
